


Falling

by rhysndtrash



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOWAR, Battle, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8755492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysndtrash/pseuds/rhysndtrash
Summary: Moriel + "I thought you were dead." mini ficOr,Azriel fell. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t feel him, couldn’t hear him in the sea of soldiers fighting their own battles, trying to survive their own clashing of swords and magic and armor. Oh, Gods, oh, Gods, oh, Gods. Where was he?Something in her gave. Something in her finally pushed her forward, as the wind brushed the strands of blonde hair that had fallen from her braid across her face, pushed her to him, to help him, to do something—to save him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’m really excited/nervous at how it turned out. It’s my first time writing non AU fanfic so bear with me! I loved writing this and waiting for comments from @nightcourthighlordrhysand and I can’t wait for all you guys’!!! I hope you all enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated :) 
> 
> For @shadowsinger-mor

After the bloodshed began, Morrigan couldn’t find him. She felt him, ever present, as she moved through bodies, slashing and cutting through flesh and armor and steel. Felt him in the core of her being, in the corners of her mind, in the center of her heart, as her body swayed like water in between stone. But then again, she had always been able to feel Azriel when he was near. His presence was almost suffocating, almost palpable in the air.

She was sweating and covered in blood and breathless when she finally stopped. There were so few of them left standing, so few and so somber, because this wasn’t right, this wasn’t the way and they all knew it from the start. But there were orders and principals and sides and so many other factors in hand and war was a difficult time to live in.

Her gaze shifted through the sea of people still standing, most of them barely hanging on, patched up and dismantled and rustled, but okay. Okay, she reassured herself. Okay. Her eyes looked for her cousin, for Amren, for Cassian, for her High Lady, for—for him. Azriel.

And that was when she realized that this wasn’t over. No, it had just concentrated itself into a smaller area as she caught her damned breath.

Feyre attacked from the right—and flanking her, Rhys, her blessed cousin, was all talons and night and wings against Tamlin’s brute claws and spring. Cassian was flying a few meters into the air, surrounding Lucien, who seemed lost, still wearing the wrong colors in this war. But what finally broke her, what set a fire into her lungs and made her legs quiver and her head spin and her skin crawl, was the sight of the shadowsinger playing with tricks of light and smoke around the King of Hybern. A dangerous game.

He was accompanied by Amren, in the form of an amazingly beautiful and large fire drake. Yet as he stood there, barely a toothpick against the vastness of her, he stood proud and tall, like a king himself.

Azriel sent a slashing throw of his sword to the King before disappearing, and then appearing again behind him and striking at his back, managing a shallow cut on his shoulder blades. He moved like shadow and mist and fury as Amren distracted the King with her fireballs and the wagging of her heavy tail in blows to his head.

She had to move. Had to help. Had to do something. She was not just some foot soldier, some casualty, some civilian in this war. She was The Morrigan. Yet she couldn’t, for some reason. Mor could only stand there, in the carnage that surrounded her, staring at the way he moved, hoping, praying, begging—please. Please, be okay. The King brushed aside Amren’s fireballs with an brash, almost annoyed stroke of his armored arm and hand, and turned his sword hand toward the space where mist and shadow and darkness was forming—where the shadowsinger would appear. And with a single blow, cut a deep wound onto his arm and—

Azriel fell. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t feel him, couldn’t hear him in the sea of soldiers fighting their own battles, trying to survive their own clashing of swords and magic and armor. Oh, Gods, oh, Gods, oh, Gods. Where was he?

Something in her gave. Something in her finally pushed her forward, as the wind brushed the strands of blonde hair that had fallen from her braid across her face, pushed her to him, to help him, to do something—to save him.

Morrigan ran. In stiff Illyrian leather, armed with two shining golden knives, she ran towards the man who she might’ve called a lover in another life, and the man who brought herso much anger, so much hate, so much pain. She swayed through people and swords and fire and wind and did not glance back a single second. And she did not look at Feyre’s own battle with a supplicant Tamlin, she did not acknowledge Amren or Cassian—who had joined her in fighting the King now that Lucien was nowhere to be seen. Not dead, but gone—, she did none of those things as the King of Hybern lifted one hand to swipe another blow at Azriel. She just threw her golden knife straight through his hand.

 

————————

 

The King screamed.

Cassian was saying something, too, and Rhys was yelling at her to get away but she couldn’t hear them as she got closer and closer, other knife ready in her right hand. She saw red and only her target as she threw her golden, pearl encrusted knife at the King’s torso, right at his heart. He was still holding his bloodied hand, still preoccupied, but a soldier wearing Tamlin’s colors jumped in front of him, deflecting the knife with a broadsword.

Morrigan swore, getting her own sword from its place on her back and pushing forward, toward the man who stood between her and the King now, as Amren and Cassian distracted him once again.

The fae male turned to her, ready to kill, to maim, to let her suffer. He had a cruel expression on his handsome face, as if he was enjoying this, as if war agreed with him. She swiped her sword across his chest and he deflected her blow, immediately turning the his own to cut at her side. She moved, too quick for him, and hit him in the shoulder with the pommel of her sword, before turning again and slashing a deep wound in his ribs.

The male swore, “Bitch.” grabbing his side with one hand and trying to fight with the other.

It was almost too easy to block him and swipe a blow to his head, rendering him unconscious. Blood sprayed everywhere, her clothes, her hair, the ground, and she felt like she was bathing in the darkness that was now her soul. She had killed so many today—so many innocent, and so many guilty, but in the end it didn’t matter so much. 

Morrigan stepped over the male’s body and prepared herself for a fight that would be so much more difficult than this one—a fight that could end her. But then she heard him. She felt him, near and—in pain.

“Mor?” the shadowsinger was saying, words slurring in his blood filled mouth. “Mor—are you there?”

He was alive.

She ran towards the voice of the man she loved with all her heart, the voice that seemed to cleanse her soul in this blood soaked war, and found him lying in a pool of carmine, hands holding on to his wounded arm and chest, blood welling around his mouth.

“Az,” Mor breathed out as she kneeled by his side, holding his head to her lap. He winced. “Sorry.”

And then she was crying. Crying like she hadn’t since this war began, since she hadn’t in years and years and years, crying because this wonderful man was still alive and here and with her.

“H—hey,” he tried to smile, but it seemed more like a cringe and his teeth were painted red. “Don’t c—cry.”

Morrigan brushed his hair back from his eyes and took a deep breath. Cassian was flying around them, making sure no one harmed them while they talked because damn it, they were allowed a moment. “I saw you fall,” she choked out, a tear making its way down her blood-streaked face. “I thought—” Mor couldn’t say, couldn’t bear to hear herself say it. She closed her mouth and pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes and concentrating on the feeling of him, safe and here and hers.

He was not hers, she had to remind herself.

“What?” Azriel said, slurring. She shook her head as it came up from its place resting on his, and looked away. “What is it, Mor?”

“I thought—” she repeated, still afraid, still too involved with this moment and the one before to let it go. “For a moment,” she began, finally looking at his glazed eyes. Mor whispered, “I thought you were dead.”

His eyes were full of understanding as he reached a blood soaked hand to her face, thumb caressing her cheek and said, “I’m okay,” he still sounded very much hurt and knew it, but he had to say it somehow. “Mor, I’m okay.”

Mor couldn’t help it as more tears made their way down her cheek and fell to her Illyrian leathers, “I know that now,” she leaned into his touch as he wiped a few of those tears away, and took a deep breath. “But I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t feel you, Az, I thought—”

“Hey,” Azriel said, raising his head a bit—wincing as he did so. “I’m going to be fine. It’s okay now, Mor. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

Her eyes lined with silver, but she nodded, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Promise me you’ll never do that to me ever again.”

Azriel hummed his assent, sliding his hand down her arm in a soft, gentle caress and between her fingers reassuringly. He finally closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting the feel of her lull him to unconsciousness.

And as Mor felt him drift away, she whispered, “I can’t lose you, Az. You're—everything.” Without another word, she winnowed them away from grime and death, to somewhere safe, somewhere where he could rest and be in peace. Finally, she sighed, knowing that her shadowsinger would live to fight another day.


End file.
